


Andrew Minyard's Diary

by fuzzballsheltiepants



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bridget Jones Fusion, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, adhd!Andrew, excessive references to gingerbread pigs, it's christmas y'all, neil is not an accountant, only one week late, terrible clothing decisions, writer!Andrew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzballsheltiepants/pseuds/fuzzballsheltiepants
Summary: Andrew is comfortable with his life. He helps edit bad books. He has his collection of people, an apartment, and a novel he will never finish writing. If only his cousin and best friend would stop trying to set him up with one Neil Josten.Except...perhaps he wouldn't mind being set up with Neil after all.In which Andrew is Bridget Jones, Kevin is Daniel Cleaver, and Neil is Mark Darcy.  Except none of them are like their inspiration characters at all.Inspired by @scribbleb_red, who said on Twitter "What if there was a Bridget Jones AU?" and when I said, "Yes please!" she handed me the reins.  I hope this is even remotely what you were looking for.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Past Kevin Day/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 33
Kudos: 367





	Andrew Minyard's Diary

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my underground badass bitches. Y'all know who you are.

_December 1_

_Hours of sleep: 6_

_Cigarettes smoked: 3_

_Words written: 2364_

_If Renee or Nicky mention Neil Josten to me one more time I will commit homicide. Maybe not literally because fuck prison. But one of my characters will die a grisly death._

_This threat might be more effective if I wasn’t writing a crime novel._

_Note to self: think of better threats._

* * *

Andrew sighed as he stared at the document on his screen. Why he had this idiotic assignment he had no idea. It was almost like Kevin deliberately gave him the most ridiculous possible manuscripts to review; if there was any evidence that Kevin had a sense of humor, Andrew would’ve sworn it was the worst long-running joke of all time.

As it was, he was left trying to come up with a way to market the stupidest thing he had ever read in his life. He had posted better stuff on fanfic.net when he was thirteen. He scrolled down, read a paragraph, paused, read it again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He pulled up the inter-office messaging system and clicked on Kevin’s channel.

**This man doesn’t think women can pee.**

I’m sorry what

**You have wasted my time reading a book written by a man who thinks that women don’t know how to urinate Kevin. Why.**

It came highly recommended

**By who? Aliens? How the fuck am I supposed to market this?**

Ignore the bodily functions bit and just move on. Editor says it’s a sure thing.

**Do you think women don’t read books**

Obviously they read books, they’re our biggest demographic

**They won’t after we sell them this.**

No response; a minute later Kevin walked by, all tall and wearing that expensive suit, not sparing even a glance in Andrew’s direction. Fine. Asshole. Andrew knew where Kevin kept his secret stash of Reese’s, and Kevin owed him after this.

* * *

_December 6_

_Hours of sleep: 2_

_Cigarettes smoked: ~~0~~ 7_

_Words written: 13487_

_Why did I agree to go to this stupid party. Fuck Nicky. Fuck Renee. Fuck Aaron. Fuck all of them._

_Most of all. Fuck. Me._

_New threat idea: I will put a dead skunk in your trunk._

_Ugh. Sounds dirty in unintentional way. Might work on Nicky though._

* * *

The party was exactly what an Allison Reynolds holiday party was doomed to be. Classy, tasteful, elegant, and as boring as watching golf with the sound on. Allison was in her element, chatting brightly with all the rich people she had invited. The only fun bit was when Andrew watched Allison get hit on by some smarmy trust-fund asshole with entitlement oozing out of every pore. She smiled down at his proprietary hand on her elbow before incising him with insults so sharp he didn’t notice them until she had walked away and he found his ego bleeding on the floor. Which should have been entertaining, except the guy recovered as soon as the next woman in a tight red dress walked by.

Renee met his eye with an apologetic grimace. Before she could come over to spare him from the tedium, a too-familiar voice rose over the low hum of polite aggression.

“Andrew!”

He debated escaping out the back door, but was too slow. Nicky emerged from the crowd, Aaron at his back. “Andrew, you haven’t answered yet about the ugly sweater party. And don’t try to claim you didn’t know about it when I know for a fact you helped Renee pick out something hideous.”

Andrew glared at the back of her rainbow-colored head as she joined Allison at the cheese table. Traitor.

“I’m working.”

“No you’re not, Kevin’s coming and he assured me you were off. Besides, it’s a Sunday.” Nicky’s grin was triumphant.

Andrew silently wondered who was responsible for the series of catastrophes that had led to this moment. It would be convenient to blame some sort of deity for wielding undue influence on the ebb and flow of the city and leading Kevin to start frequenting Nicky’s club. From there it was inevitable that Nicky would glom onto someone tall, dark, and handsome and commence warp speed flirting. Kevin was, of course, immune to Nicky’s charms but not to flattery, and it hadn’t taken long for him to start babbling on about publishing and for Nicky to put two and two together. Now Kevin was a regular at their family gatherings, and Andrew was only grateful that ninety percent of the innuendo went over his head.

Sometimes, Andrew really wished NIcky were as dumb as he looked.

“Are you done with your fake excuses?” Nicky asked. “Because if so, you’re coming with me. I’m not letting you out of this party without meeting Neil.”

Aaron shot him a smug look, and Andrew wished he could punch him in his stupid mouth, but Allison would get angry and Renee would kick his ass. Sighing through his nose, he gritted his teeth and followed Nicky through the crowd, Aaron disappearing from view somewhere around the fancy drinks table. Asshole.

Nicky’s target was standing over by the bookcases. Andrew secretly had to approve of his cousin’s taste. The man was a scant few inches taller than Andrew, a rarity in and of itself. His poorly-cut pants did little to hide his athletic build (and fantastic ass), and a riot of reddish-brown hair topped off a plain black sweater.

“Neil!” Nicky called, and the sweater flinched minutely before spinning around….revealing an enormous knitted reindeer on the front, complete with red pom-pom nose, googly eyes, and jingle bells. Andrew arched an eyebrow at the garishness before dragging his eyes upwards to meet icy blue eyes, a perfectly cut mouth, and distinguished cheekbones accented by faded scarring.

Oh no. Just exactly what Andrew didn’t need. All of his fantasies come to life, stuffed into an absurd outfit that cast immediate aspersions on his sanity.

Neil scanned Andrew warily, not a hint of interest in his eyes, before turning to Nicky. “Hello, Nicky,” he said, in a posh accent that made the stupid sweater even more incongruous.

“This is my cousin Andrew,” Nicky said, gesturing. “He works in publishing. Andrew, this is Neil Josten! He‘s an accountant for some big charity, isn’t that right Neil?”

“No,” Neil said, but Nicky wasn’t listening.

“Oh, my, will you look at that!” Nicky stage-whispered, before bounding off in the direction of some sort of enormous hunk of blond beef towering over the dessert table.

Andrew and Neil eyed each other for a moment. “So, um, read any good books lately?” Neil asked, taking a sip of what appeared to be plain water from his champagne flute.

“You’re going with that, are you?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, if you spun a wheel of generic conversational opening lines and threw a dart at it, I’m not sure if you could have found something more blasé.”

Neil’s perfect eyebrows went up. “I’m sure I could manage. I would have asked if you were having fun, but that answer appears to be rather obviously no. I suppose I could have gone with a comment on the weather. It is rather warm for this time of year, is it not? Or perhaps you fancy yourself a sporty type. How about them Cowboys?”

“The Cowboys suck,” Andrew muttered under his breath.

“Do you enjoy American football, then?”

Andrew shrugged. “I’ve never watched a game.” He thought he saw a flicker of amusement in Neil’s eyes but it died a rapid death.

“What do you consider to be a good opening gambit?” Neil asked, and Andrew couldn’t tell if he meant to sound flirtatious or if it was entirely unconscious.

Andrew’s general resolve to never talk to people at parties had not prepared him for this. “What did you do in a past life that deserves this punishment?” was what ended up tumbling out of his mouth.

Neil snorted into his water. “Well, yes, I suppose that is a bit less conventional. And the answer is murder.”

“Naturally,” Andrew said drily. “Still boring though.”

“Murder is boring?”

Andrew shrugged. “I mean, it’s what everybody says. Sounds glamorous, like, ‘ooh, I’m a murderer.’ But in reality it’s just kind of messy. Besides, it’s not specific. Who did you murder? How? Why?”

Neil hummed. “All right then, so what did you do in a past life that resulted in this punishment?”

“I swindled rich people out of their fortunes by pretending to commune with their dead relatives. Of course.”

“Of course,” Neil echoed, sounding courteous and condescending. “Though I fail to see how that is better than murder.”

Hmm. _Better_ was an interesting choice of words here. “You can’t deny that it’s more creative, can you?”

There was something wicked playing about Neil’s mouth as he leaned in towards Andrew’s ear. “Depends on the murder, don’t you think?” He straightened up. “Oh, there’s Jean. If you’ll excuse me.”

Neil wandered off without a backwards glance, only to stop at the fruit table and load up a plate before disappearing, alone, into the crowd.

Well. Fuck Neil Josten, too.

* * *

_December 10_

_Hours of sleep: 9.5_

_Cigarettes smoked: 12_

_Words written: 4_

_Calls from Nicky: 7_

_Calls from Nicky answered: 0_

_Texts from Nicky: 32_

_Texts from Nicky involving eggplant, peach, and water emojis: 18_

_Texts from Nicky replied to: 0_

_Why did Nicky have to finally get a boyfriend. Not even copious amounts of fraud in a past life could make me deserve this._

“Andrew.”

Andrew peered up at Kevin over the ridge of his computer screen. His tie was loosened, and his thick black hair looked like he had been running his fingers through it; he also had a chocolate smudge at the corner of his mouth, and his breath smelled of peanut butter. Assessment: anxious bordering on panicky.

“Kevin.”

Kevin cleared his throat and straightened to his full height, as if attempting to muster up some semblance of dignity. “I will be requiring your assistance at the launch party.”

“The launch party.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I said.”

Why Kevin thought his impatient bossy act worked on Andrew, he had no idea. “The launch party that is happening tonight, you mean. The one that you told me I didn’t have to go to.”

Annoyance tinged with guilt flickered across Kevin’s face. “Is there another one?”

“I don’t know, Kevin,” Andrew said, crossing his arms and settling back into his chair. “I am but a lowly copy writer. One who has already done my job for this particular pretentious book, might I add, so perhaps you mean a different launch party. After all, there’s no shortage of pretention to go around.”

“Starting with you,” Kevin muttered. “Look, Dan is sick, she spent the last half hour in the bathroom and I cannot risk her puking in the middle of this intro.”

“How very unfortunate for Dan. Last I checked, there were half a dozen other people who work here, are already going to the party, and are more than capable of reading some ass-kissing bullshit off an index card. Including, I would assume, you. Though come to think of it, I have little evidence you can actually read.”

Kevin let out the longest sigh Andrew had ever heard. “What will I owe you if you come and introduce the author?”

Andrew hummed. “Can I do it my way?”

“Absolutely not.”

Andrew shrugged and turned back to his screen.

“You’ll do it then?”

“Nope.”

Kevin made a strangled noise. “Why are you always so...contrary?”

“Contrary? Really? All the words in the world and you went with one that makes you sound like a nineteenth century novelist.”

“You said ‘lowly’ like, thirty seconds ago. Hypocrite.”

“Hypocrite who is absolutely not going to that stupid party.”

Andrew watched Kevin’s rumpled suit storm off in the direction of his office. Unfortunately, said suit stopped, sagged, and spun around, dragging its owner with it. “Bottle of scotch.”

“Bottle of _good_ scotch, not that watered down shit you got me for Christmas last year, and you let me write my introduction.”

“That weird peat stuff you like, but you read the intro I wrote.”

Andrew considered. On the one hand, that was damn fine scotch. On the other, he hated crowds, hated people who attended book launch parties, and hated this particular book most of all. “The peat stuff and I’ll read your intro, but you can never tell Nicky anything about my life ever again.”

“Deal.”

Five hours later, Andrew strolled into the already overcrowded ballroom, feeling oddly like he was attending some sort of alcohol-fueled prom. Which, come to think of it, was most proms. Not that Andrew had ever gone to one, despite Nicky’s best efforts to make the hormone-fueled ode to nostalgia and bad music sound appealing. But he had seen enough pseudo-angsty teen movies to know how it worked, and this definitely appeared to be the adult version.

People clustered together in small groups, cliques automatically forming in that inevitable way they always did when more than a dozen people were in any one place. He leaned against the wall, cataloging. Rich & hot always clustered together, even if they didn’t overlap; incels, off in their angry pathetic corner; “intellectuals,” formerly known as nerds, terrifying the author with their hyper-analysis of unintended symbolism in the book; sports freaks, hovering over someone’s phone and cheering whatever game was on; regular freaks, having some sort of argument about the Loch Ness Monster vs. Mothman.

Renee materialized next to him. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was solidly in the “regular freaks” camp. As was Andrew himself, if it came down to it. “Hello, Andrew,” she said sweetly. They both watched a harried Kevin scurry by in yet another Italian suit. “He’s been looking for you for the past ten minutes.”

“And I’ve been standing here for fifteen.”

She laughed and settled back against the wall. “How is the book coming? We haven’t had a chance to talk in a while.”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Friendship?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Acknowledging its existence in public means I am now doomed to vicious writer’s block for the foreseeable future.”

She smiled and nudged his foot with her own. “I have every faith you will overcome this challenge that lives only in your head.”

Andrew snorted. Faith. What a fucking joke.

Kevin walked by yet again, now slumped in defeat. Andrew shook his head, gave Renee an exasperated look, and trailed after him. Somehow he managed to slip onto the little stage unseen. He stood at the podium, adjusting the mic ostentatiously, while the dull roar of inane conversation went on around him.

Still nothing. Kevin was muttering in despair to one of the dudes in accounting, gesturing wildly at the author who was now completely surrounded by “intellectuals” in the manner of a zebra with lions.

Andrew flipped on the microphone, took a deep breath, and let out a taxi whistle. He may have miscalculated slightly, as his own eardrums rang with the reverberations and the entire crowd cringed, but at least he had their attention.

“Welcome,” he said, as flatly as he could manage, which was quite flat indeed. “Thank you for coming to the launch of _Kafka’s Motorbike,_ the…” He paused to clear his throat and infuse as much irony as possible into the next words. “The best book of a generation.”

Several other authors in the audience glared at him. Kevin suddenly found the floor very interesting, and Andrew heaved a sigh before continuing on with the introduction. He wondered if Kevin had taken a class in this in college. _Generic speechwriting 101_. Or maybe it was a higher level course; maybe you learned interesting speechwriting at the 100 level, and didn’t get into fucking awful speechwriting until the 300 level. He’d have to ask him.

An eternity later, Andrew’s job was done and the author was feigning humble dignity, or dignified humility, up on the stage. Andrew spotted Kevin trying to hide in a group of other tall people, as if he could evade his own responsibility for that catastrophe. Pathetic.

It was tempting to go drag him out by his tie, but there was still plenty of alcohol and what appeared to be little pecan tarts to be consumed. Andrew collected some of each and turned to escape to a quiet place, only to run smack into an expanse of sky blue polyester. “What the fuck.”

“Pardon me,” came a familiar, pleasantly husky voice.

No. Nope. That could not be Neil Josten, with his stupid posh accent and his stupid pretty eyes and stupid pretty face and his absolute lack of taste in clothes and imaginary crimes.

It was.

They stared at each other for a moment, before Neil seemed to shake himself. “That was, um.” He blinked, and for fuck’s sake no real person had eyelashes that long, he had to be an odd hallucination or figment of Andrew’s imagination. “That was...a speech.”

Andrew huffed. “I see you excel at stating the obvious.”

Neil’s mouth twitched and he nodded up at the author still blathering away. “I wish I could say the same about you.”

Before Andrew could retort—or analyze the sudden fluttering in his abdomen that was probably the beginnings of appendicitis—Matt bounded up. “Andrew! How did Kevin convince you to do that? Dan’s been pretending to puke all day just to avoid reading that awful intro.” He suddenly noticed Neil, demonstrating his bisexuality with a not-so-subtle double take. “Who’s your friend?”

“Matt, this is Neil. He may or may not be an accountant for a charity,” Andrew said, mimicking Nicky’s oft-mocked introductions. “Neil, this is Matt. I’m not quite sure what he does other than take up an excessive amount of space.”

Matt laughed and shook his head, extending a hand in Neil’s direction. “I’m a number-cruncher too,” he said affably.

“Okay.” Neil stared at the proffered hand for a second before shaking it. “I’m not actually an accountant for a charity.”

“No worries.” Matt shrugged. “I’m not actually very good with numbers. Don’t really know what they pay me for.”

Neil’s expression did something complicated, something that may have been amusement or may have been disdain, but before he could say anything a man nearly as tall as Matt appeared at his elbow.

“Jean,” Neil said, smiling up at the newcomer. “Surviving?”

“Barely,” Jean said, haughtily enough to live up to his French accent. “Who are your...friends?”

“This is Andrew,” Neil said, nodding in his direction. “He’s an editor with a loathing for conventional conversation. And this is Matt, who is very bad with numbers. And this is Jean, who dragged me here for networking purposes.”

“How is that working out for you?” Andrew asked, sipping at the rather terrible wine.

“Quite poorly, thanks for asking,” Neil answered, then laughed as his companion elbowed him.

“Andrew!”

He sighed and turned to where Kevin was gliding between people, press smile on and cheeks flushed with what Andrew assumed was the good alcohol that had been withheld from the masses. Kevin looked ready to throw his arm over Andrew’s shoulder against all good judgment, but he froze with said arm awkwardly outstretched. “Neil.”

“Kevin.” Neil’s voice was clipped, his expression as cold as deep lake ice. Andrew raised an eyebrow, but neither of them looked inclined to explain. Even Jean the Frenchman had gone rigid, his eyes flicking to Neil with evident concern.

“Do you two know each other?” Matt asked.

“No,” said Neil, at the same time Kevin answered, “Yes.”

They glared daggers at each other for an endless minute. Kevin blinked first, glancing down at his shiny shoes, and Neil turned away. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, with a half-nod in Andrew’s direction before fleeing with Jean’s hand on his back.

There was a long pause while they watched Jean and Neil disappear into the crowd. “Wow, Kevin,” Matt said finally. “What did you do to him, run over his puppy?”

Kevin shook his head and stalked away. Matt watched him go, then gave Andrew an apologetic grimace before wandering off in the opposite direction, leaving Andrew holding a plateful of pecan tarts, an empty wine glass, and a head full of questions.

Renee reappeared to assist him with demolishing the tarts, and they spent an amusing half-hour watching the increasingly desperate “intellectuals” corner a well-known author who had almost escaped undetected. And then she got called away, and Andrew slipped unseen out of the ballroom.

Andrew was stuck at the coat check when Kevin came up, face even redder than it had been before. “Leaving so soon?” Kevin asked, leaning up against the wall.

“It’s not soon,” Andrew retorted, taking his coat from the clerk. “I have aged four thousand years since I got here.”

“Take me with you?”

Andrew snorted, then looked up at Kevin. There was an odd expression in Kevin’s eyes, something almost hungry, and anger swirled through Andrew’s veins. He shook out his coat before pulling it on with deliberate slowness.

“You’re drunk.”

“‘M not.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Maybe I’m a little drunk. But that doesn’t change what I want.”

Andrew shook his head as he headed for the door. Kevin trailed after him. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re a fucking asshole, do you know that, Kevin?” The cold air hit him like a brick, and he shivered into the folds of his coat.

“C’mon, Andrew. We’re good together, admit it.”

“Fuck. Off.”

Kevin used his long legs to pass him, turning to block him as he did so. “I know it was a long time ago—”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“What if I want you to do it instead? You’re still the best I’ve ever had.”

Andrew sighed and pulled out his phone, opening the Uber app. It would take a few minutes, but he knew from experience that Kevin would follow him home like a lost puppy. Better to shove him in a car and have some peace.

Kevin whined at him for a moment longer before drifting into a pathetic silence. Andrew watched the swirls his breath made in the winter chill while he waited. For some reason he found himself thinking of Neil, of the glimpse of pain he thought he had seen in his eyes, of the proprietary hand on his back as he had walked away.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Kevin said, just as the Uber pulled up to the curb.

“Well, better do it quick, your ride’s here.”

“My ride? What about you?”

Andrew didn’t bother to answer, just opened the door and shoved Kevin in. Once he had shut the door, with slightly more than necessary force, he turned to walk the few blocks to his apartment only to find Neil standing in the overhang of a closed shop, watching. Andrew raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

“You all right?” Neil asked.

“What do you care?” Andrew muttered, shivering again as he resumed his walk.

“I don’t.” But he fell in step alongside Andrew anyway.

“Where’s your shadow?”

Neil tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. “Who, Jean? He went home ages ago. He hates parties.”

Andrew didn’t ask why someone who hates parties would insist Neil attend one with him. It was none of his business. They walked in silence for half a block, the traffic lights throwing alternating red and green stripes across the pavement. Far over their heads apartment windows gleamed like domesticated stars, each one a tiny solar system unto itself.

“Do you plan on stalking me?” Andrew asked, as Neil followed him across a crosswalk.

“What?” Neil asked, blinking as if Andrew had knocked him out of a dream. “Oh. No. I just thought you might want some company.”

Andrew stopped. Neil staggered sideways to avoid running into him. “Why the fuck would you think that?”

Neil’s face flushed red, or maybe that was the stoplight over his shoulder. “I don’t know. Just a guess.”

Andrew studied him for a second, the way his eyes searched Andrew’s face, though what he was looking for was a mystery. “I don’t need saving.” Especially not from someone wearing a leisure suit, especially not from someone clearly already taken.

“I didn’t think you did.”

But when Andrew huffed and started walking again, Neil kept pace, stride for stride, the whole way. And when he looked out his apartment window, a quarter of an hour later, Neil was standing alone under the streetlight as the first tiny snowflakes of winter began to fall.

* * *

_December 12_

_Hours of sleep: 7.5_

_Cigarettes smoked: 4_

_Words written: 9786_

_Attempts to back out of ugly sweater party: 6_

_Successful attempts: 0_

_Homicidal thoughts: 7982406.33333_

_Actual homicides: -1_

_Why._

Andrew had to admit he didn’t detest his [ugly sweater](https://www.target.com/p/women-39-s-cat-holiday-cardigan-sweater-green-xxl/-/A-79656836?ref=tgt_adv_XS000000&AFID=google_pla_df&fndsrc=tgtao&DFA=71700000012735151&CPNG=PLA_Women%2BShopping_Local&adgroup=SC_Women_Local&LID=700000001170770pgs&LNM=PRODUCT_GROUP&network=g&device=c&location=9003279&targetid=pla-893922927827&ds_rl=1241788&ds_rl=1246978&ds_rl=1248099&gclid=Cj0KCQiAk53-BRD0ARIsAJuNhpt8Zr349oI7T_66vVY2u3lcSJ7HL9eRkIDuVU4qtvvMXZWi9-a5jR0aAsamEALw_wcB&gclsrc=aw.ds). He had found it in the women’s section at Target a couple of years ago. It was a garish green-and-black leopard print, with a deep v-neck and stupid little buttons holding it closed. There was a white glasses-and-scarf-wearing cat on one side, complete with tiny santa hat, and lacy metallic bows and snowflakes on the other. Worn over his black “Fuck the Patriarchy” t-shirt, it made quite the statement, especially since “the Patriarchy” was hidden beneath the sweater.

Nicky greeted him at the door with enough enthusiasm that Andrew suspected he was already several drinks in. His tiny apartment was filled to overflowing with revolting acrylic, liquor, and the cacophony of myriad conversations overlaying shitty Christmas music. Andrew sighed as he elbowed his way over to the drinks table. Some traditions he could do without.

“You have to try this,” Nicky said, shoving a glass of white liquid in his hand. There were crushed candy canes around the rim, and Andrew took a cautious sip. Rum, white chocolate, and peppermint. Perhaps Nicky mildly redeemed himself for this annual atrocity.

“Andrew!” Allison looked like she was about to throw an arm around his shoulders before thinking better of it. “That sweater is perfectly horrible, where did you get it?”

“Like I would tell you.” He took another sip of rummy goodness. “You are not deserving of this sweater.”

“I’ll find it one way or another, fuck you very much.”

He flipped her off and wandered away in the direction of the snacks, ignoring her bray of laughter. Nicky’s boyfriend Erik or Eric or Erich was taking up one side of the table stacking a plate with cheese squares, which he promptly sent tumbling everywhere when he waved an enthusiastic greeting at Andrew. He probably thought Andrew was Aaron. That was the usual explanation for any form of enthusiasm directed in Andrew’s direction.

Andrew caught one of the cheeses as it made a bid for freedom off the edge of the table, popping it into his mouth. Erik grinned at him sheepishly as he resumed his stacking. “Glad you could make it,” he said in his heavy German accent. “Nicky was hoping you would come. He invited that funny one, he wanted you to keep him entertained.”

“The funny one?”

“Neil.” Eric nodded, corralling a few more cheese cubes. “But he’s not here yet, I don’t think.”

Andrew munched thoughtfully on a cracker. There was no sign of Neil. Or Kevin. Andrew assumed Kevin would be here eventually, since he hadn’t received any texts about his tragic murder by Uber driver. He wondered if Kevin would yet again go back to pretending that nothing had happened.

“Hey.” Aaron punched him lightly on the arm. “I see you didn’t manage to find an excuse.”

“I found several. None of them stuck.”

Aaron snorted, a knowing fondness on his face as he watched Nicky foist a neon-green drink on an alarmed-looking Katelyn. “You should know by now it’ll never work.”

“Some day, I will find an excuse Nicky will accept.”

“Yeah, right. Unless it’s a boyfriend, you’re screwed. And if it is a boyfriend, he’ll just make you bring him along. You’re doomed to a family whether you want it or not.”

And with that rapier stab wound, Aaron stuffed a handful of cheese into his mouth and disappeared.

Andrew picked his way through the crowd to the relative respite of Nicky’s bedroom. Thankfully it was empty; he supposed nobody was quite drunk enough yet to try to get frisky. He closed the door on the chaos and sat down on the pile of clothes Nicky had left on the bed.

It never made sense to him, why people craved this. What they got out of it, other than a headache and some free alcohol. From in here, the party sounded almost like the ocean in a seashell, rolling and indistinct.

After enough time had passed that he didn’t feel like his skin was on too tight, he cracked the door open and slipped back into the fray. Nobody had even noticed he was gone. He spotted Kevin standing between Nicky and a tall woman with her hair in braids and ornaments dangling from her sleeves; Nicky barked a laugh and Kevin looked pleased with himself. Aaron was leaning against the girlfriend while she talked animatedly to Renee and Allison. Erickh was passing around trays of food, chatting and smiling as he went. Andrew snagged a slightly smashed gingerbread man and some sort of cocktail that smelled like caramel and tucked himself into a corner. Or meant to; the corner was occupied.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” he blurted out.

Neil Josten started, looking down at what appeared to be a very expensive and well-tailored gray suit. “Clothes, I think.”

“Ugh, what is wrong with you?” What was wrong with him was that he was impossibly attractive, but he didn’t need to know that. “I can’t even look at you.”

Neil laughed, a quiet, private sound. “You’ve seen me before wearing that awful sweater and the leisure suit, and this is what bothers you?”

Andrew blinked. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

But Neil just raised an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said smoothly, but there was laughter in the crinkles beside his eyes.

“Is this a fetish for you? Wearing drastically wrong clothes for any given occasion?”

Neil hummed. “I’m not sure you want to go around discussing fetishes. Especially wearing that.” He gestured at the cat on Andrew’s sweater. “I can’t tell if you really hate cats, or if I should be calling the authorities.”

Andrew glanced down, it appeared the t-shirt had ridden up slightly, so it now read “Fuck the” instead of just “Fuck.” “Oh, for…” He gritted his teeth. “It’s ‘Fuck the Patriarchy.’”

“Now that’s a message I can get behind,” said an unfamiliar voice. Andrew turned to see Kevin’s date standing behind him. “Hi, Neil. It’s been a while.”

Andrew watched as a storm of emotions roiled across Neil’s face, before he schooled himself into a neutral smile. “How have you been, Thea?”

“Good. Busy. You know how it is.” Thea glanced at Andrew, appraising and dismissing him in one-point-two seconds. “We’ve missed you, you know,” she said, turning back to Neil. “All of us.” Neil made a noncommittal noise, and she squeezed his shoulder. “When did you come back to the States?”

“Last year,” he said. “I got transferred here from Maryland a few months ago.”

Andrew zoned out while they made polite chit-chat for a while about the good ol’ days at Princeton, wondering idly whether Thea could beat him in an arm-wrestling competition. He was leaning towards yes when he was yanked out of his speculation by Neil stiffening and taking a step backwards, only to bump into the wall.

“...just talk to him, Neil,” Thea was urging. “You have no idea how sorry—”

Andrew followed Neil’s eyes to see Kevin across the room, ostensibly talking to one of Nicky’s random coworkers but in actuality watching the little drama unfold. There was something almost pleading in Kevin’s expression that Andrew typically only associated with 0.12-blood-alcohol-level Kevin, not mostly-sober Kevin.

“—you owe him this much.”

Andrew’s skin prickled at that, at the concept of _owing_ ; he shouldered his way between Thea and Neil. She huffed down at him, and he stared back up at her, keeping his face neutral though he could feel Neil’s faint trembling at his back. “I see you have a bit of a problem with something those of us who didn’t attend prep school and Ivy League learned a long time ago,” Andrew said.

Thea rolled her eyes. “What.”

“A little thing called boundaries. You see, a boundary is something that fixes a limit or an extent.” Andrew tapped his temple. “Now, I will admit that I didn’t go to a fancy university. Honestly I barely graduated high school, I was lucky to get into a third-tier state school on an athletic scholarship. So maybe I’m mistaken. But it has been my understanding that a personal boundary should not be crossed without consent.”

Thea looked slightly guilty behind her indignation. “I’m not—”

“Consent, in case you don’t know,” he bulled on, “can be defined as permission for something to happen. Now you may think that you’re above all that—”

“Andrew.” Neil’s breath tickled his ear. “Andrew, it’s fine.”

“No, it fucking well isn’t.”

He bumped Thea on his way by, forcing her back a step. Nicky’s apartment building was just a four-story walkup, but there was a rooftop with a badly neglected garden, and he took the stairs up, not turning to see if Neil was following. The echoing in the stairwell indicated he was, and Andrew didn’t look too closely at why that settled something in his gut.

There was a heaviness to the air that Andrew drew into his lungs, as if it was holding back secrets along with the impending snow. He picked his way to the edge, ignoring the brown remains of the plants that had been a wild splash of color in the summer. There came the familiar sting of bile in his throat as he stared down at the street below. People bustled along with arms overflowing, bags and packages and coats and hats in every color like a moving winter garden.

He breathed. He could feel Neil doing the same beside him.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Neil murmured, his voice almost inaudible over the city’s exhalations.

Andrew settled on the ledge. “What’s the deal?”

“Deal?”

“With Kevin.”

Neil shrank in on himself, tugging his suit jacket tighter around him.

“How about this,” Andrew said, as the silence dragged on. “You tell me what the deal is that has you melting down every time you see Kevin, and I’ll answer any question you want.”

One eyebrow went up. “Any question?”

Andrew didn’t bother to answer, and after a moment Neil nodded. “Kevin was...I guess you could say he was my best friend, back at university. We were roommates, you see, us and then Thea and another of Kevin’s friends, Jeremy. I hadn’t lived in the States for almost a decade, and he just—took me in. Spent holidays with him and his mum, all that.”

Neil sighed and sat down next to Andrew, his legs stretching out across the roof. “Third year, he met someone. And it was—it was fine. He deserved to have someone in his life, someone he wanted. But everything started to change after that.”

Andrew didn’t think he was imagining the wistfulness in Neil’s tone. “He didn’t like any of us. Kevin’s friends, I mean. Didn’t want Kevin spending time with us, even though we still lived together. That sort of thing.”

“Sounds like a real dick.”

Neil laughed, his breath a white plume in the air. “Yeah. And then at the beginning of fourth year, my mum died. She’d been sick for a while, but I hadn’t—I’d thought I had time. And Kev, well. My family is a bit fucked up, and Kevin was the only one who really knew. He had promised me he’d go with me.”

“But he didn’t.”

“The guy didn’t want him to.” Neil shrugged. “Said I was lying, that I was just trying to steal Kevin away. So I went, and Kevin stayed.”

Andrew digested that. “And then what?”

“I transferred. My family decided I didn’t have enough ‘support,’ or some such bullshit. So I finished up at Cambridge, then went to Sorbonne.”

There was more here, simmering beneath the surface, but Andrew swallowed down the questions that bubbled up. “Your turn.”

Neil blinked at him for a second before his face cleared. “Oh. Er, what’s your favorite color?”

Andrew made a derisive buzzing sound. “That cannot be your question. Try again.”

And Neil’s eyes crinkled up, as if some sort of joy had been excavated by Andrew’s response, and Andrew had to look away before he did something stupid. “My apologies for once again not living up to your expectations,” Neil said, with a mocking bow. He thought for a moment. “Okay, how’s this: what are you afraid of, that nobody knows you’re afraid of?”

“Heights.”

Neil huffed, and they watched the trail of his breath dissipate into nothing. “But you’re up here anyway.” It didn’t merit a response, so Andrew gave none. “Are you afraid of heights, or afraid of falling?”

“Is there a difference?” Andrew asked.

“Yes,” Neil said seriously. “Can’t you feel it?”

_Falling,_ Andrew thought. _Falling._ It was there, in the swoop of his stomach as he stared into Neil’s clear blue eyes. He cleared his throat and looked down to the dirty pavement below, the colorful people crawling along oblivious to them hovering so far above, and fought not to grab onto the ledge.

“If you’re afraid of heights, you’re afraid of possibilities,” Neil murmured. “If you’re afraid of falling, you’re afraid of the reality.”

“What fucking fortune cookie did you read that in?” Andrew scoffed, and there it was again, that crinkled smile.

“I think it was an Elizabeth Gilbert book,” Neil said, and Andrew laughed. Fuck him, he laughed.

Neil was shivering, his cheeks red and his knuckles starting to look blue, and Andrew wasn’t too far behind. “You should go inside.”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If you want me to commit murder at your cousin’s party. I know murder bores you, but I suspect Nicky might not agree.”

“Nicky could use a little excitement.”

But still, they sat, watching the city’s lights bloom out against the dark.

* * *

_December 14_

_Hours of sleep: fuck_

_Cigarettes smoked: fuck_

_Words written: -3072. fuck._

_Minutes spent thinking about Neil Josten: fuck_

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_

“What are you working on?”

Kevin flopped into the seat next to Andrew’s desk, only to leap up when Andrew’s fidget rings dug into his ass. He ignored Andrew’s outstretched hand, playing with the rainbow bands and flipping the rings as he settled back down.

“The usual drivel,” Andrew said.

Kevin frowned and stood yet again to lean over Andrew’s shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d been assigned anything yet, since you sent the notes back about that pee book.”

Shit. He debated minimizing the doc that housed his book, but it was too late. Kevin scanned the page, his hands freezing on the fidget toy. “What is this?”

Andrew gritted his teeth. “Some crime novel.”

“Crime? Here?” He reached for Andrew’s mouse before getting his hand batted away. “We don’t usually get crime novels. Is it one of our authors?”

“No. Some new asshole.”

“Scroll down,” Kevin said, a touch of his usual imperiousness resurfacing—which was when Andrew realized it had been missing. He sighed and obliged.

“How the hell did I not know about this?” Kevin asked, several pages later. “None of the agents contacted me.”

“I don’t know,” Andrew said flatly. “Maybe they’ve finally realized that you are terrible at your job.”

Kevin opened his mouth, closed it with a clack of teeth, and twisted to stare at Andrew’s profile. His fingers hadn’t stopped toying with the fidget rings. “Andrew.”

“Kevin.”

“Andrew.”

“That is my name, yes. Are you having a stroke? Is that the only word you can say? Stick your tongue out for me.”

Kevin grabbed the arm of Andrew’s chair and spun it so they were facing each other. “It’s you.”

“I thought we had established that already.” Andrew swiped the rings back from him. They were warm from his fingers.

“Do you have to be so impossible?”

Andrew hummed. “And yet here I am, which makes me improbable, does it not?”

The frustrated noise Kevin let out was amusing; Andrew wished he had recorded it so he could play it back on nights he couldn’t sleep. “This book. This is yours.”

“What makes you say that?” Andrew hedged.

“Well, that response, for one. But that guy, the detective, Higgins? He talks just like you.”

Did he? Andrew was going to have to do some major editing if that was the case. He flipped the rings through his fingers, feeling the familiar movement, the soft ridges of the bands. Flip. Flip.

“For fuck’s sake, Andrew, stop—whatever weird mental thing you’re doing. It’s good. It’s very good.”

And what the fuck was he supposed to say to that? ‘ _Thanks; I will now delete everything and never write again?’_ Fucking Kevin with his fucking support. The worst of it was, Andrew couldn’t even lie to himself that Kevin didn’t know what he was talking about. He might not know how to write a speechable speech, but Kevin knew publishing. He knew books.

Andrew settled for shutting off his screen the next time Kevin tried to scroll down. Kevin uttered discouraging words under his breath but for once he didn’t try to argue. Andrew expected him to disappear into his office and spend the rest of the afternoon chatting up big-name writers. He didn’t expect him to sink back into the chair and start messing with Andrew’s pens.

“Yes?” Andrew asked after several minutes of this.

“Are you going to the thing at Dan and Matt’s on Saturday?”

Ah, yes. The annual feast of one-ups-manship. Andrew had been dragged to the first one as a favor to Renee after she talked him out of a terrible clothing decision, but now he attended every year voluntarily. “To watch half a dozen couples pretending they have the perfect life when really they’re just trolling for blackmail fodder? Yes.”

Kevin groaned and rubbed his eyes, nearly stabbing himself with a pen in the process. “I promised Dan I’d go a month ago. But that was before—“ He cut himself off abruptly. “Never mind.”

Andrew watched a kaleidoscope of emotions swirl across Kevin’s face and debated if this merited bringing out the big guns: the king-sized bag of peanut butter m&ms that lived hidden beneath Andrew’s empty file folders. For all his Ivy League education and gym-rat physique, Kevin was a sucker for chocolate-and-peanut butter, the cheaper the better.

The click of the drawer made Kevin flinch and almost stab himself for the second time. Andrew sighed, filched the pen from his fingers, and tossed the bag of m&ms at him.

“What am I supposed to do with these?”

“Stress eat. Give yourself some dopamine. Use them to reward yourself for having adult conversations. Choke. You pick.”

Kevin tried to glare at him but it was made less effective by his struggle to open the package. “As if you can talk about adult conversations.”

The package tore abruptly, erupting brightly colored candies all over Andrew’s desk. Andrew snagged the ones that rolled his way, popping a blue one and a yellow one in his mouth. “I am a master of adult conversations.”

“You spent three hours distracting Renee talking about whether Lighting McQueen would need to buy life insurance or car insurance.”

Andrew nodded seriously. “And what kid would talk about that?”

Kevin opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. “I hate you.”

“Well, go hate me somewhere else so I can delete this scene and get on with my life.”

“What scene? What scene are you deleting? Is it the one I just read? Because—”

Andrew plucked the torn bag out of Kevin’s hand, scooping the desk remnants into it despite Kevin’s protests. “Shoo. Go. No m&ms for people who bother me.”

He turned his monitor on and did his best to ignore the fact that Kevin still sat there, crunching the candy one piece at a time. This whole section with Higgins and the Moriyama kid had to go; it was really jumping the shark. He hit the backspace as quickly as he could, watching the letters get swallowed up by white one by one. It would’ve been more efficient to just highlight and delete, but this was much more satisfying.

“Are you sleeping with Neil?” Kevin asked.

Andrew’s finger slipped off the backspace and created a long line of backslashes. “What the fuck, Kevin.”

“It’s none of my business, I know. I just…” He heaved a sigh so big a butterfly in South America probably died. “Never mind.”

Andrew leaned back in his chair and waved a hand. Might as well get this bullshit over with. “No, do go on. I want to hear this.”

Kevin started then stopped several times. “He deserves to be happy. Someone who will make him happy.”

“Isn’t that a bit trite?” Andrew asked.

Kevin’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it belongs in a Hallmark card or a romance novel, not in real life.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” Andrew deleted the row of backslashes then leaned back in his chair. “Happiness is always fleeting. Relying on someone else in order to be happy is a risky endeavor at best, and a potential for abuse at worst.”

“What are you saying, that I shouldn’t wish happiness on one of my best friends?”

“If you’re still calling Neil your best friend, you need some help defining what that means, but what I’m saying is, society defining happiness as something dependent on a partner is why we will both be attending the Annual Feast of One-Ups-Manship in a few days, and it’s fucking unhealthy.”

Kevin digested that. “So...you’re not sleeping with Neil.”

It turned out, m&ms made good missiles. Kevin finally departed when the third one pinged off his forehead, and Andrew turned back to his screen. But he got no more writing done.

* * *

_December 18_

_Cigarettes smoked: 1_

_Hours of sleep: 6 ⅓_

_Words written: 764_

_Texts from Nicky: 17_

_Texts from Nicky read: 0_

_Texts from Kevin: 4_

_Texts from Kevin read: 1_

_Minutes spent thinking about Neil: fuck off what are you a cop_

_Existential question for today: why don’t they make mouse-flavored cat food? Or do they?_

Andrew smoothed out his sweater before hitting the bell to Dan’s apartment. Some random guy jogged up the steps just as he was buzzed in, grabbing the door with a grin and a, “Thanks, man.” Andrew ignored him even as the guy trailed him to the elevator, stomping the dregs of slush from his boots all down the hallway like an asshole.

Andrew pressed the button for the 6th floor. Asshole jock—he was definitely a jock—gave him a sunny smile and slouched against the elevator wall. “Looks like we’re floor buddies!” He was unperturbed by Andrew’s silent eye roll. “I’m a little nervous; I’m going to this party with my old college roommate and I had, like, the biggest crush on him for like three years, you know what I mean?” Jockhole laughed. “You probably don’t. You’ve probably gotten everyone you’ve ever wanted. But yeah, I gave up and now, six years later, he calls me up and practically begs me to come to this party with him! So here I am, and I have no idea if he really likes me or if this is a pity date or what. What do you think? Do you think I look okay?”

“I literally—and I cannot stress this enough—could not care less.”

The elevator doors slid open just in time. Jockhole followed him out, sunniness undimmed. “Right, yeah, I don’t blame you. God, I hope he’s here already. We agreed to meet here and now I’m thinking that’s kind of a mistake—”

Andrew pressed the button at Dan’s door with a bit more vigor than strictly necessary, pretending he didn’t have a five-foot-eight gay disaster hovering over his shoulder. He was starting to suspect who Jockhole’s ex-roommate-slash-crush was, and it didn’t bode overly well for the evening.

Matt swung the door open, his ever-ready grin faltering just for a second as he took in Andrew’s new shadow. “Uh, hi! I didn’t realize you were bringing someone.”

“I didn’t,” Andrew said, ducking under Matt’s outstretched hand. “I believe he belongs to Kevin.”

“I mean, I don’t belong to him,” Jockhole said. “Wait. I never said I was here for Kevin.”

“Are you?” Matt asked.

“Well, yeah. But I didn’t tell him that,” he said, with a wave in Andrew’s direction. “I’m Jeremy, by the way. Nice to meet you, I love your apartment.”

Andrew walked away before he gagged on the pleasantries. He spotted Allison and Renee, Laila and her girlfriend, whose first name he had never learned, and for some reason Nicky and Erik, as he wove his way through to the drinks table. Predictably, Kevin was already there, hovering near the vodka like a protective mother.

“Your beard is here,” he said, swiping the bottle away before Kevin could make even worse decisions.

“How can he be my beard if he’s a guy?” Kevin asked, draining his solo cup.

“He’s your patheticness beard, not your gay beard. Obviously.” He glanced over to where Matt and Dan were laughing with a broadly grinning Jeremy. “Better go get him, before they end up subsuming him into their relationship.”

“How am I pathetic but you’re not?” Kevin asked, looking mournfully at the vodka now tucked safely into the crook of Andrew’s arm.

“Because my identity doesn’t depend on whether I’m fucking someone or not.” He made a shooing motion. “Go. Abuse the poor man’s crush on you.”

“Wait, what?” Kevin asked, going owl-eyed. “You know what, no. You’re so full of shit. He was my roommate.”

“And they were roommates,” Andrew muttered under his breath. “Go watch a vine,” he called at Kevin’s retreating back.

“Is that a new curse?” came a posh voice. Because of course, Neil was there, smirking at him from the dining area.

“Yes. By the way, what the fuck?”

He gestured at Neil, who shrugged elegant shoulders that were outlined in what appeared to be a silk pajama top. A paisley silk pajama top, to be precise. The neck was a little too loose, exposing collarbones and what appeared to be the beginnings of unexpected muscle and also an old bullet wound.

“Oh, you like?” Neil said, emerging from the shadow to reveal extremely fitted leather pants and boots that Andrew absolutely did not covet on sight.

Andrew closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hate you.”

“Do you.”

“Yes. Also, your old roommate is here.”

“Kevin? Yeah, I know.

“Your other old roommate.”

“Thea?”

“ _Other_ other old roommate.”

“Oh.” Neil scanned the room and hummed. “Jeremy. Interesting.”

“How do you keep ending up at these parties?” Andrew asked, holding up the vodka bottle in offering.

Neil waved a hand in dismissal of the alcohol. “I have no idea, honestly. This one was Jean’s idea, I think he managed to get himself invited at that appalling book launch.”

“Your shadow.”

Neil snorted. “Hardly that. He’s over there somewhere, ‘networking’. By which I mean, trying to get donations from people for his charity.”

“Is this the one you are not an accountant for?”

“There are many charities I’m not an accountant for, to be fair.”

“All of them?” Andrew asked, sniffing a bottle of whisky and pouring some into a cup.

“All of them.” And there it was, that little crinkle.

Andrew took a sip of his whisky, leaning back against the wall and pointedly not looking at the perfect curve of Neil’s lips. “Still not sure why you bother coming when you know Kevin will be here.”

There was a tightness to Neil’s shrug. “It appears I can’t avoid him, even in a city this big. May as well get it over with, I guess.”

And the thing was, it made sense. Andrew understood reclaiming your own life. The way it pulled you along like a river whether you wanted it to or not. That if you were going to smash into the rocks and submerged trees anyway, you might as well be steering the raft.

He would’ve stood in the corner with Neil for the rest of the night, slowly drinking himself into complacency, but he had barely finished his whisky when Dan came storming through with a covered dish, Matt on her heels. After that it was a mad stampede for seats at the overcrowded table. Andrew rather unfortunately found himself wedged between the Erickh of uncertain spelling and Laila’s girlfriend of uncertain name, both of whom talked in his general direction but never actually to him.

The conversation followed along its usual paths. Discussions of engagement rings and wedding plans, complete with blushing laughter and mock-outrage; humble-bragging about vacations and promotions; snide comments about apartment locations and “bold” clothing choices. Jean opined snarkily about wine; Jeremy laughed too loudly; Nicky draped himself over Eric too blatantly; Laila and Allison were in some sort of odd engagement-story competition that was starting to veer away from exaggerated and into flat-out false. Only Neil was quiet, his eyes darting from person to person, his usually expressive face unreadable.

It was as exquisitely uncomfortable as it always was. Andrew made mental note of the increasingly desperate attempts to come off as cultured and unaffected, storing it away for a future novel. Until….

“What about you, Andrew?” the girlfriend of uncertain name asked him. Nicky made an indistinct noise, and the woman jumped before shooting a look at Laila. “What? It’s a fair question. There’s all these studies about happiness and relationships, and he’s the only single one here.”

Neil looked up at that, but didn’t say anything. Andrew raised one eyebrow at him, then slid his gaze to Laila, then her girlfriend. “I thought only straight people had unsatisfying sex lives,” he said.

“What?” she asked.

He gestured vaguely in her direction. “I thought only people with deep sexual frustration would buy into that bullshit about happiness being dependent on long-term relationships. Especially now that women are no longer so financially dependent on men.”

Her face flushed, but before she could open her mouth, Neil spoke up. “Given that half of all marriages end in divorce,” he said, sawing at a piece of meat, “it’s hard for me to believe that people are happier in relationships.”

“Has anyone here been to Iceland?” Nicky asked, sounding desperate. “Erik and I were talking about it—”

The conversation diverted back to the topic of expensive vacations, and though Renee shot him a sympathetic smile nobody tried to talk to Andrew again. He should’ve been relieved, but there was something rippling beneath his skin, something itchy and hot that was the opposite of relief.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to it, the judgement, the whispers. It wasn’t like he had ever wanted to be with someone, not beyond a quick blowjob, or a night spent taking them apart only to send them out the door again in the morning. Hell, he had slept with two of the people at that very table, and they had never looked to him for anything more either.

It was just, sometimes it got old, being on the outside looking in.

It was just, sometimes he was tired. Of being the only one who didn’t need this, who didn’t see the point. Of always being the only one.

It was just, sometimes his apartment was colder than the thermostat dictated.

He took the stairs down after, listening to his footsteps echoing, one at a time. At the bottom, he gave himself a moment to wrap his scarf properly around his neck and tug his coat on. It had been too warm in the apartment to even consider it, but here he could feel the chill creeping through the door like fog.

There was a scramble behind him and he turned, still pulling on his gloves. For some reason, he wasn’t surprised to see Neil jogging down the last few stairs, his cheeks flushed from warmth or exertion. He stumbled when he saw Andrew, slowing to a walk.

“Hi.”

“Why are you trying to run in those?” Andrew asked, glancing at his leather-clad legs and the thick-soled boots below.

“Stupidity,” Neil said with a faint shrug.

They stared at each other across the tiled lobby. Neil was the first to blink, and it felt like a triumph. “You were right back there, you know,” he said, closing the distance between them.

“I don’t need you to defend me.”

“No, I know. You’re more than capable of humiliating people on your own.”

“Right.” Andrew shook his head. He didn’t know why, for a second there, he had actually thought there was a gossamer thread of understanding. “I’ll just be on my way, humiliating unsuspecting passersby as I go.”

“That’s not—” Neil sighed, his hand twitching like he was going to reach out before he stilled it. “You’re kind of amazing, you know? I mean, you have an objectively terrible sense of humor, and you’re an appalling public speaker, and you’re constantly putting yourself in situations that you obviously hate for reasons I don’t understand, and your cousin is...well, he’s a lot, and I have no idea what’s going on with you and Kevin and I should probably figure that out before I keep talking but. I like you.”

His ears were pink now, and his neck, and he was shivering in his thin pajama shirt from the leaching cold, and never had Andrew wanted to touch him more, and he hated himself for it.

“You like me.”

“Yeah.”

“Aside from the awful sense of humor, and the public speaking, and the idiot cousin, and the fact that three years ago I fucked your best friend who you are probably in love with and when he gets really drunk he thinks it was more, and—”

“No.” And there it was again, the little crinkle of a smile. Andrew suddenly realized he never saw it when Neil was talking to someone else. “No, not aside from that. I like you. Just as you are.”

Andrew’s brain ground to a screeching halt. He was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open as he stared at Neil—at this impossible man with his impossible words—but it was beyond his power to close it. Before he managed to reboot, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open to reveal Jean, tall and handsome and sophisticated and talking at Neil in rapid French. Neil blinked, and pulled away, and that was when Andrew realized how close they had been, just a hairsbreadth apart. Neil closed his eyes, closed his whole face, and replied in kind. There was something small and sad about the smile he shot at Andrew, before he turned away and left Andrew to the mercy of the swirling winter night.

* * *

_December 19_

_Cigarettes smoked: 16_

_Hours slept: 0.5_

_Words written: 0_

_Texts from Nicky: 1_

_Texts from Nicky read: 1_

_Texts from Nicky replied to: 0_

_Hours spent not murdering Kevin: too many_

_Minutes spent thinking about Neil: not enough_

_Fuck my life. Fuck alcohol. Fuck insomnia. Fuck Kevin. Not in that way. Fuck Christmas. Fuck engagements. And seriously, fuck. Kevin._

Sometime around when nighttime was giving way to dawn, Andrew finally managed to lull himself into a vague semblance of sleep. He hated sleeping on the couch, but Kevin had passed out on his bed and he was absolutely not going to share.

His phone vibrating against the table woke him; he blinked at it blearily, unwilling to believe the numbers that stared back at him. 7:08. That was not a real time. Not on a Sunday morning. Not when he had watched 6:30 pass on the cable box.

The phone buzzed its reminder two minutes later, and he groaned and swiped open the message.

_Dumbass cousin_

E proposed!! going to germany to meet his family

flight in 2 hours

didn’t want to wake you

see you in the new year with my new husband!!!

The text was followed by a succession of emojis that started out lewd and devolved into nonsensical. Andrew stared at them; the otter he thought he understood, and maybe the lobster, but why was there a camel? And a woman with scissors in her head? And was that a sloth?

He let the phone fall to the floor and tried to will himself back to sleep. But a little knot started in his stomach as he thought of Nicky, getting on a plane with a man he barely knew. He counted the days since Allison’s party, his fingers slipping over them like the beads on the rosary Nicky kept tucked away in his sock drawer. Eighteen, only eighteen days.

It was too few to hitch a life to. Too few to know. Too few to gamble the fleeting happiness Nicky was always grasping after. Wasn’t it?

For some reason, Neil’s face popped into his mind unbidden. Not the one with the little crinkled smile; not the terrified-bunny one he wore when he was Kevin-adjacent; not the calm incisive one he had assumed as he stepped in on Andrew’s behalf the night before. No; he was thinking of the way he had looked staring out over the city, talking about fear and falling, raw and honest and rare, and exactly calculated to eviscerate Andrew and leave him bleeding out all over the rooftop.

Andrew cursed under his breath and shifted on the couch cushions, trying to find a comfortable spot. Draping his arm over his eyes, he willed himself to empty his mind, to seek out the oblivion of sleep he so desperately needed. But just as the edges were starting to blur, his fucking phone started vibrating again.

This time the buzzing didn’t stop for an endless moment, until it finally went to voicemail. Andrew breathed a sigh and closed his eyes.

The buzzing started again.

And again. And again, until he groped around on the floor for the hard edges of his phone. It was a fifty-fifty shot if he would smash it or answer it, but a glance at the screen had him choosing the latter.

“What,” he mumbled flatly into the phone.

“Married?” came Aaron’s voice. “He’s getting fucking married? Is he insane?”

Andrew made an indistinct noise. Even he didn’t know if it was agreement or resignation, but it was enough to set his brother into full cry. “We don’t even know this guy. He could be an axe murderer. Or a gold digger. Or a gold-digging axe murderer.”

“Nicky’s a bartender. If he’s a gold-digger he’s going to be sadly disappointed.”

“Yeah,” said Aaron dryly, “that’s where the axe-murderer bit comes in.”

Andrew snorted and rubbed his eyes, giving up on sleep as a bad job. “Is there a national registry of axe murderers?” he asked. There was just enough light filtering through his window to fumble his way into the kitchen and hit the button on the coffee maker without tripping over Kevin’s oversized boots that were sprawled out across his floor like a crime scene.

“You should check,” Aaron said, sounding serious which meant he was, for once, joking. “Google it. National Axe-Murderer Registry. That won’t get you on an FBI watchlist or anything.”

The fire escape was freezing when Andrew slipped through the window. He almost dropped his phone while lighting his cigarette, but it would’ve been worth the cash just to get that first gasp of nicotine into his lungs. “If researching bullet calibers, blood spray, and ways of disposing a body didn’t do it, I doubt that would. Besides, what if he has only murdered people in Germany? Maybe that’s why he came to the U.S.”

“And now he’s going back?” Aaron said skeptically. “Seems dumb, but okay.”

Andrew hummed. “Maybe it’s the other way around. He murdered someone here—”

“With an axe,” Aaron supplied.

“Yes, we’ve established that. He murdered someone here, with an axe, and his only hope of avoiding prison is to flee to Germany before he’s linked to the crime.”

He ashed his cigarette while Aaron mused. “So where does Nicky come in?”

“Couple possibilities. One, he wants an insurance policy. He can use Nicky as a hostage if he gets caught.”

“Makes sense.” There was a brief pause. “What’s the other?”

Something pulled at the corner of Andrew’s mouth as he took a last drag of his cigarette and ground it out against the railing. “He actually loves Nicky.”

Below him, a delivery truck beeped. A window opened in the building across the narrow street, revealing the very naked torso of a woman leaning out to light her own cigarette. She saw Andrew watching and flipped him off, but didn’t bother to retreat into the seclusion of her apartment. Andrew returned the gesture and slipped back into the warmth.

“I dunno,” Aaron said in his ear. “I vote the first one.”

“Same.”

He hung up while Aaron was still laughing. Kevin was sound asleep, overflowing Andrew’s bed with a foot hanging off the end and a hand nearly brushing the floor at the opposite corner. The stale scent of last night’s liquor emanated from him, and Andrew shook his head while he took his coffee and his laptop over to the couch.

It wasn’t the first time Kevin had showed up to his apartment, drunk off his ass, seeking who-only-knew what. He had pretended he wanted to get off, but Andrew was pretty sure that was an excuse; he never put up more than a token protest when Andrew reminded him he wouldn’t fuck him in that state.

The cursor in his doc blinked at him judgmentally. He snapped the laptop closed. There were so many ideas, so many words, but it felt like his brain was wading through quicksand.

He willed it to wade towards his novel. Failing that, he willed it to wade towards Neil.

Instead, it waded towards Kevin. Towards empty vodka bottles and emptier eyes. Towards memories of that same look on Aaron’s face, grasping and hollow, the fix different but the desperation the same. Years had passed since Aaron had broken free of that particular monster, but Andrew hadn’t forgotten. Couldn’t forget.

The balcony was just as cold on his sixth cigarette. When he came back in, Kevin was slumped over the coffee pot, his hair sticking up like an irritated porcupine. He mumbled something incoherent, and Andrew took the empty pot from him and started a fresh one.

A few minutes later Kevin joined him on the couch, cradling his mug like an infant. “Morning,” he muttered into his coffee. Andrew ignored him, skimming an article about axe-murderers. “Did we, umm—”

Andrew looked up at that. “What the fuck do you think I am?”

Kevin blinked at him before hunching himself up into a smaller ball. “I didn’t mean that.”

Anger roiled, crawling up Andrew’s throat, buzzing in his ears. He tried to swallow it down and nearly choked on it. “Why did you come here, Kevin?”

“I wanted...I don’t know. I wanted to forget, I guess.”

“Forget what?” When no answer was forthcoming, Andrew waved a hand as if it would help shoo the unbidden rage away. It didn’t. It never did. “Whatever answers you’re looking for, whatever...absolution, you’re not going to find it here.”

“I’m not looking for absolution,” Kevin snapped.

“Aren’t you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Andrew. I was horny. You’re no-strings-attached. That’s it.”

“Sure. You’re horny, so you come to the guy who has refused to fuck you for years, rather than go home with your date who would turn himself inside out for you. Makes sense.”

“I just said it, didn’t I? You’re no strings attached. Jeremy’s—Jeremy has expectations.”

Andrew huffed. It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so fucking tragic. “Expectations.”

“Yes.”

“By expectations do you mean feelings? Or that he won’t ignore the fact that you’re a fucking alcoholic.”

Kevin crashed the mug down on the table, so hard that Andrew half-expected it to shatter. “Goddamnit, Andrew. Just kick me out and be done with it.”

“I tried that last night, if you remember. Oh right, you don’t, because you were so drunk off your ass you didn’t know which way was up.”

The couch practically shook with the breaths Kevin was drawing. “What the fuck did Neil tell you that made you hate me so much?” he asked, but he didn’t sound angry anymore. He sounded broken.

“What does me pointing out your very obvious drinking problem have to do with Neil?” Andrew asked, nearly cracking his teeth on the harsher words that threatened to escape.

Kevin rubbed his face, the scars Andrew had never asked about stark white along the back of his hand. “I…” He lurched to his feet, straightening himself up in a transparent attempt to gather his dignity. “I’ll stop bothering you.”

Andrew waited until his hand was on the doorknob. “Kevin?” Kevin stopped, but didn’t turn around. “You’re not wearing any pants.”

Days and months and years later, he would play that back in his head. Why that simple detail was enough to burn Kevin’s denial into ash, he never really understood. Kevin would try to explain it once, sitting on this same couch, holding the same mug with a fox reading a book that Renee had given Andrew for Christmas one year. He would talk about the guilt, and the grief, and the fear. About falling in love with the idea of someone, and falling victim to the reality. About having his foundations stripped from him, brick by brick; about the shame of allowing it and not even noticing until he was bare and shivering in the cold; about gathering straw around him and calling it a home. About the escape that had lived in the bottom of the bottle. About friendship and family found, rebuilding without him even realizing it, until all it took was the flare of a match, of a single sentence, to set his world alight and show him the new life he had established almost by accident.

But that was in the future.

First, had to come the crying. The searching online. The phone calls.

First, Andrew had to tie Kevin’s shoes because his hands were shaking too badly to do it himself.

First, an Uber to Kevin’s apartment to pack a bag, and if Andrew slipped his own copy of _Regeneration_ into the bag for Kevin to read nobody needed to be the wiser.

First, he had to fill out form after form, and recall filling out nearly identical forms a decade earlier with a different name.

First, he had to promise not to disappear.

And first, he had to go home, wrung out and flat, and sprawl out in his bed that still smelled like sweat and liquor and despondence, and stare at the ceiling, and try to find the memory of something he wasn’t sure he had ever known.

* * *

_December 23_

_Cigarettes smoked: 3_

_Hours slept: 8.5_

_Words written: 1235. ugh. must delete one or write more_

_Texts from Nicky: 0_

_Starting to think the axe murderer theory may not be too far off_

“Merry Christmas, Andrew.” Renee set a neatly wrapped box on his desk, complete with hand-tied bow, card tucked into the ribbon. He dug around in his desk drawer until he pulled out her gift, an old copy of _A Christmas Carol_ wrapped in plain brown paper. He had found it that summer, at a flea market Nicky had dragged him to. It was worn, the gold embossing half flaked off, the pages a dusky reddish color, but the illustrations were still crisp and bright.

“Should I open it now?” she asked. He shrugged, forcing his fingers to still from where they had been fiddling with the ribbon on his gift. She gave him that smile, that stupid smile that told him she knew him far better than she had a right to, and slipped a nail under the tape.

“Oh, Andrew.” Her breath hitched, her eyes tear-bright as she glanced up at him. “You remembered.”

Her fingers were reverent as they turned the pages. It had been the first Christmas they had spent together, before Allison, before Nicky and Aaron had moved here, when they were still two people new to this city just trying to shore themselves up against the cold. They had cuddled up under one blanket with hot chocolate and popcorn and marathoned every version of A Christmas Carol they could find. The Muppet version was both their favorite, though Andrew had a private fondness for Scrooged that Renee did not share. And she had told him about her first real Christmas.

She had been fourteen years old, with a different name in a different city, and she lived through more than any one person should in a lifetime. Her adoptive mother Stephanie had plucked her out of the system as the leaves had just begun to turn, and they had spent the fall with Renee bristling at Stephanie’s good-natured faith like a cat at a golden retriever. Even as the first snow fell she had been pushing, testing, trying to fail, trying not to fall.

On Christmas Eve, sitting in front of the tree with all of its stupid little cheesy ornaments, Stephanie had fished out a slim novel and asked Renee if she could read it aloud. She could not have told why she said yes. With an eye roll and a petulant sigh, but she had said yes nonetheless.

Stephanie’s voice had woven a spell then, warm and soft, blending in with the flickering of the fire and the clean white light of the tree. It hadn’t been a catharsis, nor the reason for Renee’s ultimate conversion. But it had been something. A shift. A door cracking open. A moment, where warmth and hope started to seem less like myth and more like something worth fighting for.

Andrew hadn’t understood then what that particular book meant to her. He still didn’t really get it. But there had been times when the only things keeping him tethered were words on a page, and when he had seen that book sitting there, unloved and forgotten, he hadn’t been able to walk away.

She hugged the book to her chest while he untied the ribbon and tore apart the paper to reveal a scarf and gloves in black shot through with blue. He pulled them on, warm and soft against his chapped knuckles, and Renee smiled.

“Would you like to come to our place for Christmas?” she asked.

He tore his eyes away from the delicate cabling along the backs of the gloves. “I don’t imagine your fiance will be very happy about that.”

“It was her suggestion,” Renee chided. “It’s just us this year, Stephanie can’t make it out.”

Andrew shook his head. Though Christmas was synonymous with Nicky, he still had Aaron to consider. They would fumble their way through posole and gingerbread pigs and empanadas, and green bean casserole and roast beef and pie too, because they could never settle the argument whether they should do Mexican Christmas or American Christmas and ended up mashing the two together. It shouldn’t work, but it did.

“Okay,” Renee said. “Let me know if you change your mind. Even if it’s late. We’d love to have you.”

He nodded, his gloved fingers rolling and unrolling the ribbon from his gift. She started to leave, but hesitated at the corner of his desk. “How’s Kevin doing?”

“He’s Kevining.” Andrew glanced up at her. “If rehab was a competition, he would make sure he won. I got six texts yesterday about how I need to quit smoking.”

Renee laughed. “I mean…”

“Fuck off. Go home to your fiance and leave me to my vices.”

“We’re caroling tomorrow,” she said. “If you want to join.”

“What did I just say?”

“Something about leaving you alone to destroy your lungs in peace?”

“Exactly,” he said, tapping two fingers to his temple and then waving her away.

His phone buzzed as he was packing up. The office was closed until after New Year’s, and he didn’t want to analyze the odd little swirl of emotions at the prospect of being away from the familiarity of his desk for ten days. It wasn’t healthy, he told himself sternly, wrapping Renee’s scarf around his neck. He should hate the way his chair squeaked when he spun it just so, the way his desk drawer smelled vaguely of peanut butter, the coffee ring from where he set his mug every single day.

He checked his phone in the elevator.

_Kevinest of Kevins_

Why did you put this book in my bag

**Because it’s genius and everyone should read it**

**“You know you're walking around with a mask on**

**and you desperately want to take it off and you can't**

**because everybody else thinks it's your face.”**

Did you just quote that from memory

**Obviously**

I hate you

**Read the fucking book. It’s history. You like history.**

Why this book?

**Just read it you asshole, you’ll like it**

Careful I might start to think you actually care

**Go to hell**

Nope. too busy finding my way back

Andrew huffed as he shoved his phone in his pocket. He did not sign up for this.

Except maybe when he did.

He shivered when he unlocked the door to his apartment. The thermostat read 70, but he didn’t believe it; he bumped it up a couple of degrees and went into the kitchen to make himself some hot chocolate. At the last minute he pulled out the mexican chocolate and cinnamon. He debated dragging out the masa harina Nicky had left there and really going all in, but it would take too long and he didn’t have any piloncillo left.

When the mug was steaming happily on his table, he spent several long minutes studying the contents of his bookcase before closing his eyes, spinning in a circle, and grabbing at random. The book he plucked off the second shelf had a far too cheerful cover, but at least Dan had promised him that it was, quote, “very extremely gay.”

He had not yet gotten to any evidence of impending gay when Aaron texted.

_Fellow Binate_

Katelyn wants me to go home with her

What do I do

Andrew rolled his eyes and tossed his phone onto the couch. A minute later, it buzzed again.

Asshole

You left me on read

**What do you expect me to do**

Advice. You love giving it when I don’t want it

**This sounds like a you problem**

I don’t know what to do with parents

**I can’t imagine why when we had such shining examples**

This is the girlfriend stage when everything goes to hell

Or when they meet you and Nicky but Katelyn already survived that bit

**That oversight can be corrected**

Fuck you

...

Do I go?

**I can go instead if you want**

That is a much worse option

**They won’t know the difference**

So much worse

**It’ll be great**

**I’ll tell them all the good stories**

**Like the time you stole mr. ingram’s vodka and puked in the christmas tree stand**

Shut up

**You wanted advice**

**Now you don’t want to listen to my advice**

Andrew’s mug was empty and he had finished the chapter by the time Aaron replied.

It’s Christmas

And I know you don’t care

I know it was always Nicky’s thing

**He’s not dead**

But he’s not our guardian anymore

**No shit**

We’re not 13 anymore

**You sure? You still wear the same size pants**

Fuck off we’re the same size

Andrew snorted. Obviously.

He was tucked under all his blankets and halfway through the book—which was, in fact, getting gayer by the page—when one more text came through.

Ok I’m going save me a pig

Andrew shut off the lights.

* * *

_December 24_

_Cigarettes smoked: undetermined_

_Hours slept: undetermined_

_Words written: undetermined_

_Minutes spent thinking about Neil: undetermined_

_Texts from Kevin: undetermined_

_Texts from Nicky: ~~3~~ 5 (either not dead or axe-murderer Erickh has opted to fake it)_

_Texts from Nicky responded to: 1_

_Resulting exclamation points: 12 (evidently Nicky not dead)_

_I just intended to make some fucking pigs and now this?_

The rain came lashing down, muffling the sounds of the city and sending the last remnants of graying snow into the gutters. Andrew huddled up on his couch over his crème brûlée coffee, glaring at the streaks on his windows.

He could see three options:

One, text Renee and spend the next thirty-six hours as a third wheel while she and Allison gave each other cloyingly sweet gifts and cloyingly sweet looks and cloyingly sweet kisses under mistletoe. He vetoed that option right off the bat.

Two, sit here in his empty apartment scavenging leftovers and pretending Christmas didn’t exist and that his brother and cousin were not currently moving on with their lives while he remained as stagnant as he always was. This had much to recommend it; he gave himself seven out of ten odds of picking it.

Three, get off his ass, brave the rain, and get the ingredients he should have bought last weekend when he had still thought there was going to be a Minyard-Hemmick Christmas and do it all himself. Mostly so he could send pictures to Aaron and make him regret his heternormative choices while he dealt with bland ham and sugar cookies, but still. This required a lot of work, but would result in gingerbread pigs and posole and something to bring to Kevin tomorrow.

_Monozygous clone_

This is hell

I am in hell

**You brought it on yourself**

They have stockings

There is one with my name on it

Katelyn’s mother is singing Christmas songs

And not ironically

**Oh are they getting stuck in your head?**

No

**Really?**

**Rockin’ around the christmas tree? No?**

Fuck you

**Feliz Navidad?**

I hate you so much

**I saw mommy kissing santa claus?**

I swear to god I will come to your apartment and strangle you

**What about**

**Grandma got run over by a reindeer**

There is no possible death too slow for you

The grocery store looked like it had been pillaged by hordes when he finally shoved his way through the crowds. Shelves were swept bare, children were wailing, harried grocery store employees with deep bags under their eyes were having food plucked from their hands as they tried to restock.

Luckily for him, tomatillos and hominy were not prominent on the menu in his mostly-white neighborhood. He managed to find one lonely jar of molasses on its side at the back of the shelf, grabbed a few more things, and then joined the enormous crush at checkout.

He was swiping his card when he heard it. That stupid posh voice with its stupid round vowels, managing to sound stupidly elegant as it tore into someone a couple of lines down. Craning his neck caught him a glimpse of distinctive coppery hair topping off what appeared to be a ridiculously nice blue wool coat. Because of course someone who wore a pajama shirt to a dinner party would wear a coat like that to the grocery store.

Bag dangling from his hand, Andrew stopped in front of Neil’s line. The picture in front of him was rather enjoyable: some six-foot-tall dude in a fancy suit leaning away from Neil, who stood with his arms crossed fairly bristling with fury. Two women behind Neil were cheering him on, and the cashier appeared to be suppressing a laugh. Finally the asshole scooped up his groceries and fled, and that was when Neil caught sight of Andrew.

His stomach did a complicated series of gymnastics at the way Neil’s face lit up in recognition. Neil paid for his food, some mixture of boring and bland, and hurried to grab his bag and join Andrew by the doors with a breathless, “Merry Christmas Eve.”

“Merry Embarrass Grown Men in Public Day.”

Neil laughed, his arm brushing so lightly against Andrew’s that it must have been an accident. “He deserved to be embarrassed.”

“Entitled dick?”

“Entitled _racist_ dick. Any adult who has that much of a fit over crescent rolls should be permanently banned from public existence.”

They walked together in a comfortable silence for a block. It hadn’t occurred to Andrew that Neil lived near him. Or perhaps Jean did. That thought made something go sour in his mouth, and he pushed it away.

“Well, I’m down here,” Neil said, gesturing with his bag into a side street with considerably nicer apartments than Andrew’s. He stared at Andrew for a few seconds too long before visibly shaking himself. “I, er. I hope you have a pleasant holiday.”

‘You too,’ ‘Merry Christmas,’ and ‘fuck off’ all warred with each other in Andrew’s head; he nearly said ‘Merry Fuck to you’ but caught himself. The result was that he waited a beat too long to reply, and Neil ducked his head, his cheeks faintly pink, and disappeared down his street. Andrew smacked himself once in the forehead, the can of hominy swinging and whacking him in the chest for good measure, and turned for home.

Andrew didn’t exactly enjoy cooking, but he could let himself get lulled by it in a way that little else managed. He wasn’t particularly good at it, not like Nicky was; he couldn’t eyeball a recipe and figure out how to change it to suit his tastes, and he had never been able to throw things together on the fly. But there was a rhythm to it that he understood, that satisfied some base instincts in him.

The chicken was simmering away in a bed of tomatillos, garlic, and chilis—the “white people” amount of jalapeños, not the “Nicky” volume—when the door buzzer went off. He ignored it; music was filtering up from the floor below, and he assumed someone had hit the wrong button. A minute later it went off again. Dropping the flour canister on the counter, he dusted his hands off on the “Fuck Off I Use Knives” apron Nicky had bought him a decade ago and went to the door just as it buzzed a third time. “Wrong apartment, asshole,” he said into the speaker.

“Pretty certain it’s not,” came Neil’s too-familiar voice.

Andrew stared at the little speaker, his thumb pressing the button almost against his volition. A minute later, he opened the door to a quiet knock. “What.”

Neil grinned at him, a cocky thing that Andrew hated on sight. “I was bored. Don’t have your number.”

“So your solution was to show up at my apartment on Christmas eve.” Neil nodded. “I could have people here.”

“Do you?”

The unsaid ‘no’ echoed loudly through the room. Neil’s grin softened, those little crinkles forming at his eyes. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll go.”

“But?”

“But I’m betting you want me here.”

A laugh escaped from Andrew’s lungs. “You really are an asshole.” But as he turned away, he swung the door wide.

He could hear Neil behind him, the click of the door, quiet footsteps across the floor. It was strange, having someone new in his apartment. Made stranger by the fact that he didn’t think he minded. He minded even less when he turned around to see Neil minus his coat, wearing a soft-looking sweater and properly fitted jeans and for once looking like a rational adult.

It was patently unfair. He should’ve kicked him out while he had the chance.

“What are you making?” Neil asked, gesturing at the tiny kitchen overflowing with the predecessors of a meal.

“Marranitos. Gingerbread pigs.”

Neil hummed, picking up the ginger to look at the label before setting it back down. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“It’s a Mexican thing. A Nicky thing, I guess.”

“Marranitos.” Of course, his accent seemed perfect to Andrew’s unpracticed ear. “Little pigs. Sounds disgusting.”

“You are not allowed to criticize until you’ve had one.”

“Is that an invitation?” Neil asked, now fiddling with the molasses.

“Last I checked you invited yourself.” Andrew dug his measuring cup back into the flour. “Stop being useless,” he said, nudging a clean measuring cup Neil’s way. “Give me three quarters of a cup of that.”

Neil gave his quiet laugh, every single crinkle present and accounted for, and opened the jar.

And it was...easy.

It was easy having Neil hand him things, and not flinching when their fingers brushed. It was easy listening to Neil babble on about Christmas traditions in the different places he’d lived, and how none of them felt like they belonged to him. It was easy telling him about the cold austerity of Christmases with Tilda, and the colder fears of the years in foster care after she was gone. And then Nicky, lost and determined to become un-lost, clinging on to Aaron and Andrew while they scrambled for traditions of their own.

“So pigs,” Neil said, picking up the cookie cutter and peering through it.

“Pigs.” Andrew swiped it from him and pressed it into the dough. “Stop being a menace.”

“Oh, am I bothering you?”

“Beyond the telling.”

Neil hummed, and bumped his shoulder, and there was something playful and yet serious in the creases of his mouth. Andrew could feel heat rising in the back of his neck. He shoved Neil out of the way of the oven, setting the first tray in carefully.

“Have you spent every Christmas since then with Nicky?” Neil asked.

Andrew flopped onto the couch, floury apron and all. “All but one. The first one after I moved here was with Renee.”

Neil joined him, letting his head fall onto the back of the couch. “My family wanted me to fly home,” he told the ceiling. “It’s the first year since my mum died that I didn’t go.”

Andrew hummed. The percussion of the rain pelting the windows had softened, and when he glanced out he saw a swirl of white. “It’s snowing.”

Neil craned his head to see the snow, then bounced to his feet and practically smashed himself against the window.

“Are you one of those idiots who gets overexcited every time it snows?”

“It rarely snows in England,” Neil said defensively. “I’ve never had a white Christmas.”

“Me neither.”

Neil gaped at him. “I thought they were always a thing over here.”

“Only in the movies. And Minnesota.” Andrew joined Neil at the window. The snow was melting as soon as it hit the ground, but if it kept up there would soon be a filigree of white outlining the metal of the fire escape. For a split second, he let himself consider being snowed in for Christmas with Neil. Neil laughing and throwing baby snowballs on the fire escape, hair studded with flakes. Neil watching stupid Christmas movies with him and mocking all the tropes. Neil warm and rumpled in his bed.

He shook himself. Neil had never implied he wanted any of that. He was bored, nothing more.

The timer binged, and Andrew pulled the tray out in a burst of warm gingery smells. Neil was at his shoulder when he slid the second tray in. “Can we eat them?”

Andrew smacked his hand away from the hot cookies. “Not unless you want to burn off all your tastebuds and never enjoy food again.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“Pretty sure most people your age know not to put steaming hot food in their mouths. Wait ten minutes.”

“Bossy.” But he was all crinkled up again, and there was something in his eyes as he watched Andrew stir the posole that made Andrew’s chest ache. “I like that you’re doing this.”

“Keeping you from burning your tongue?” Andrew asked.

“This.” He gestured at the crockpot gently bubbling, the pigs in formation on their cooling rack. “Even with Nicky and your brother away, you’re keeping up your traditions.”

Andrew froze for a second, dripping tomatillo juice onto the counter before he caught himself and resumed stirring. “How did you know about that?”

“Kevin.”

“You’re talking to Kevin?”

“Yes?” And Andrew hated that little lilt of the question mark at the end. “I assumed you knew.”

And suddenly, it all made sense.

His sudden appearance.

His incessant understanding.

It was about Kevin. Of course it was about Kevin.

Kevin with his twelve steps, making amends, rehabbing harder than everyone.

Neil, with the longing in his voice on a frozen rooftop.

Andrew pulled the second batch of marranitos out of the oven, setting them carefully on the stovetop. With slow deliberation, he took a plate out of the cupboard and began scooping the chicken thighs out of the slow cooker. He could practically hear his therapist’s voice, telling him not to jump to conclusions, telling him to breathe.

He was breathing. He was always fucking breathing. He had never yet been able to stop.

Neil’s eyes were on him as if he could see it, the mundane oxygen Andrew pulled into his lungs, the mundane carbon dioxide he exhaled. His skin crawled under the scrutiny; the handle of the spoon dug into his palm.

He let the spoon clatter onto the counter. The blender, he needed the blender, and he needed Neil not to watch him, not to sit there and watch him with that endlessly quiet patience on his endlessly beautiful face that he could never ever touch.

“Andrew.” Neil’s voice was soft. “You did a good thing.”

Andrew shook his head as he set the blender on the counter. He lifted the insert out of the slow cooker and started to pour.

“Why do you hate that so much?”

Andrew’s hands twitched, and he sent the last cup of salsa verde cascading over the counter and down onto his leg. Hissing through his teeth as the steaming liquid soaked through his pants, he almost dropped the insert, but Neil’s hands were there, quick and scarred and steady.

“Fuck, Andrew.” Neil set the insert carefully in its place. “Are you all right?”

“Why are you here?” Andrew spat.

“I told you. I was bored.”

“You’re a fucking liar.”

Neil laughed; it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Sometimes, but not about this. Not really.”

“I don’t need you.” Andrew took a step and fought a grimace as the fabric pulled against sensitive skin.

The color was rising in Neil’s cheeks, and there were flames behind the ice of his eyes. “I never said you did.”

“And I don’t need _this_.”

“And what is this, exactly?”

“Pity. Yes? Kevin told you I was alone.”

“He did, but I didn’t come over here because I felt sorry for you, you asshole.” He turned away, fists clenched, before spinning back to face Andrew. “I thought you would get it. Until thirty seconds ago, I thought you did get it.”

A small green pool was forming under Andrew’s foot, wicking into his sock. He glanced down at it, then back at Neil. He wanted to ask him what it was he was supposed to get, but his words were puddled on the floor between them and he couldn’t get his tongue to work.

“It’s—” Neil shook his head and sighed at the ceiling. “You don’t understand what you are, do you.”

_Nothing_ , Andrew’s brain supplied, in Tilda’s voice, in the voice of a dozen foster parents. It was still the default. But immediately after that, another voice in his head said, _myself_.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever met who doesn’t give a shit about adhering to convention.” Neil reached towards Andrew’s sleeve before letting his hand drop. “I’ve spent my whole life bending to fit in. I was obedient for my father, to avoid...well. I was loyal for my mother, because it was all she understood. I was accomplished for my mother’s family, but not too much so, wouldn’t want to show anyone up. I was pleasant to my roommates, but I’m nobody’s best friend. And I’m good at my job but not good enough to stand out. I’ve been a hundred different people, all to try to make up for this,” he said, gesturing at the faded scars that curved across his cheekbones. “And you’re just...you. Do you know how fucking rare that is?”

The sauce dripping off the counter was the only sound. Andrew’s heart was pounding in his chest, but he could barely feel it. All he could feel, all he could focus on, was the echo of Neil’s words and the slowly cooling stickiness of his pant leg. “I can’t right now. I need to—”

He hobbled towards the bathroom, doing his best not to trail sauce through the apartment. Neil followed, standing with his arms folded across his chest as Andrew shut the bathroom door in his face. There was a sudden relief as he peeled off the clinging fabric of his sock, then his pants, bundling them in the corner.

For a moment he let himself sit on the toilet lid and breathe. A plan. He needed a plan. He would go out there, he would tell Neil to shut the fuck up and kiss him. No. He would go out there, and tell Neil that he was perfect and an unattainable pipe dream and—No. He would put on some pants, go out there, stuff Neil full of posole and gingerbread pigs, and tell Neil he would blow him. No, no, fuck no, what was wrong with him?

“You don’t remember, do you?” came Neil’s voice through the door. “You don’t remember what I said.”

_I remember everything._

He ran through all their little conversations. About murder. About falling. About bad speeches and worse clothes. And above and around and through it all, the impossible. _“I like you. Just as you are.”_

There was a muffled click, like a door closing. “Neil?”

Nothing.

Andrew poked his head out of the bathroom. Green still streaked down his cabinets and across his floor; the blender still stood awaiting instruction; cooling racks still sat laden with their delicious cargo, but Neil was gone.

“Fuck.”

It had been years since Andrew had run anywhere. Not since college, when he had earned his way through on an undeserved athletic scholarship. But his old college coach would’ve been proud of him for the way he darted across to the door, flung it open, and bolted to the stairs.

Halfway down he skidded on some slush fallen from someone’s boots. Cursing, he went back up the stairs three at a time, shoved his feet in his boots, and took off again.

Snow was falling steadily when he reached the street. A handful of children were spinning in circles on the sidewalk, tongues out, trying to catch the flakes. He stood on tiptoes, craning his neck for a glimpse of blue coat, and when he saw it he almost lost his footing in the slush trying to run after it.

“Neil!”

He couldn’t see over the people on the sidewalk to know if Neil had stopped or not. Dodging between a couple holding hands and a pair of older women laden down with shopping bags, he made it to the corner and paused, sucking in air.

“Oh my,” said one of the women behind him.

He didn’t spare her a glance, not when he could see Neil now, not even thirty yards away. “Neil!” he called again, and again he ran.

“What are you doing?” Neil asked as Andrew skidded to a stop, and Andrew thought there might be laughter bubbling behind his voice.

“I remember. I remember what you said, all of it.”

“So you decided to run out here, in your boxers, in the snow?”

“Yes.” The old ladies were gawking down the alley at them, but Andrew didn’t care.

“Why?”

“Because,” Andrew said, and he felt an unfamiliar tug at the corner of his lips as he stepped closer. “I’m betting you want me here.”

And now Neil did laugh, and he crinkled, and he reached out and grabbed Andrew’s apron, and pulled him closer still. “You really are an asshole, aren’t you?”

“You like it.”

Neil hummed. “I do.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“I think that would be a good idea.”

It was.

It was a good idea to wrap his cold fingers in the lapels of Neil’s coat. It was a good idea to draw him in, to brush their noses together, to inhale the little hitch of breath Neil made. It was a good idea to cup Neil’s cheek in his hand, to feel the little shiver that ran through him, and then to lean in the rest of the way.

And it turned out that was the best idea of all.

Objectively, on a scale of one to ten, it wasn’t the hottest kiss Andrew had ever had. Neil was too tentative for that, too obviously worried about doing something wrong. Andrew didn’t see stars, didn’t forget to breathe, didn’t think he might die from the wanting. Andrew felt none of the things he had read in books.

But for all the talk of knowing himself, what Andrew did feel was lost.

Lost, and too hot and too cold all at once. Lost, and floating, his only tethers his hand on Neil’s face and his tongue in Neil’s mouth.

Lost, and happy to be so.

Lost, and found, all at the same time.

“Oh, _my_.”

Neil started and pulled back, and Andrew turned towards the voice to see the same old women from before, now just a few feet away. One of them, the shorter one, was studying them with her head cocked to one side as if she were in a museum. An FAO Schwarz bag hung from her arm, and the stuffed bear who was peeking out of the top had its head at the same angle, and Andrew fought the urge to laugh.

“Did you know you aren’t wearing any pants?” she asked, swinging her bag at Andrew. The bear nodded with the movement, and he was pretty sure he had never felt quite so thoroughly judged by an inanimate object before.

“I had noticed, yes,” he said, tightening his grip on Neil’s coat.

“Aren’t you cold?” her companion asked.

“I am.”

“Okay, then,” the first woman said, “carry on.”

And then Neil was resting his forehead on Andrew’s, his whole body shaking with silent laughter, his fingers twisting in the stupid apron. “Come on,” he said. “You owe me a pig.”

* * *

_December 25_

_Cigarettes smoked: 1_

_Hours slept: define sleep_

_Words written: 2072_

_Texts from Aaron: 1_

_Texts from Kevin: 1_

_Texts from Nicky: 17_

_Texts replied to: 0_

_Minutes spent thinking about Neil: all of them_

_“What’s today, my fine fellow?” “Today? Why, today is Christmas Day.”_

_I wonder what it means that I used to want to be the bunny in Muppet Christmas Carol._

_Eh, who the fuck cares what depressing fictional rabbits I used to want to be. At least I didn’t aspire to be Fiver. Or the White Rabbit, but that would’ve been Kevin anyway._

Andrew was warm.

Sunlight stole in through the windows, creeping across the floor and jumping onto the bed like a cat. It picked its way over the lump of blankets that was Neil before settling on the curve of his cheek, begging to be touched.

Andrew wormed his way deeper into the blankets instead.

Sleep had been an elusive creature, teasing him only to flit away when he reached for it. But he didn’t really mind. When it had come, in brief snatches, he had dreamed of lying under a Christmas tree, staring up at the lights; of colors and music; of hiding under a bed only to be found by Aaron, who morphed into Nicky, who morphed into Neil.

“Morning,” Neil whispered, his eyes a sliver of blue as he squinted against the light. “Merry Christmas.”

Andrew hummed and leaned in, dragging his nose up Neil’s cheek and breathing him in until Neil turned to meet his mouth and smiled against his lips. They had done this several times through the night, as the wind howled against the windows and the snow had swirled outside in a white fury. Once, Andrew would have thought such a night wasted, with only kissing.

Not that night.

There had been stories told between the kisses, funny and sad, truth and fiction, the two sometimes impossible to distinguish. It was a microcosm of a life, lived in a handful of hours between white sheets, and Andrew didn’t want it to end.

“I’m hungry,” Neil murmured when the whole apartment was filled with the clean light that only winter sun provided.

“No you’re not.”

Neil laughed and acquiesced, though his stomach grumbled loud enough Andrew could hear it. Andrew rubbed a hand through his hair and made to get up, only to have Neil’s arms snake around him and drag him back in.

“I have to pee,” he said.

“No you don’t.”

Eventually they detangled themselves from the blankets and each other. It wasn’t long before they found their way back under the covers, mugs of coffee and a plate of marranitos balanced precariously on an oversized book between them. Neil picked up one of the pigs and bumped its snout against the one in Andrew’s hand, and then almost knocked over the mugs leaning in to do the same to Andrew.

“Menace,” Andrew said, dropping his pig to rescue the coffee.

“As advertised.”

It was the laziest Christmas Andrew had ever spent. They only left the bed to get more food, and once for Andrew to grab his laptop and for Neil to dig through his pockets for his phone. For some reason, having Neil wrapped around his back made the words come easier, and Andrew finished off his chapter before snapping the laptop shut.

They were finishing off their posole as the sky darkened through the windows when Neil asked, “What happens now?”

Andrew dragged his fork through the remnants of sauce on his plate. “We put on a stupid movie and I spend two hours trying to distract you from it.”

Neil hummed. “I think you would successfully distract me in about two seconds, but okay.” He played with the handle of his mug for a moment, then held out his hand. “Here, give me your phone.”

Andrew unlocked it and handed it over, watching as Neil entered in his contact info then slid the phone back across the little table.

“You entered yourself into my phone as ‘Fashionista.’”

“I am. You just have no appreciation for forward fashion.”

Andrew snorted, then grabbed the front of Neil’s sweater and dragged him in for a kiss. “You make a point. Not a good point, but I’ll allow it.”

**_Fashionista_ **

**Just as you are**

Neil gave a too-soft smile at the message, then promptly deleted it.

“What did you just do?”

“If I don’t have your contact info, I can’t leave,” Neil explained, blinking innocently.

**_Fashionista_ **

**Did I say you had to leave?**

Andrew did, in fact, distract Neil from the movie in approximately two seconds. It turned out Elf made about as much sense if you only paid attention to about one minute out of eight as if you watched the whole thing. Halfway through Neil got up and rummaged around in Andrew’s kitchen for a while, returning with some popcorn and a couple more marranitos.

They ate popcorn and kissed and ignored Will Ferrell jumping around like an idiot and kissed some more, and then Neil rearranged the pigs into a compromising position and Andrew raised an eyebrow at him.

“Is this a hint?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Neil said with what could only be described as a smirk. Andrew hated that word. Smirk. He was forced to kiss it away.

“You are a terrible liar,” he murmured, pulling Neil down on top of him.

“I’m a very good liar,” Neil contradicted. “When I want to be.”

Andrew picked up a pig and studied it for a moment before dropping it back on the plate. “Did you know that pigs have corkscrew dicks?”

Neil’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you telling me this because you have a corkscrew dick and you want to see how I react to this knowledge?”

A laugh bubbled to the surface. “What if I was? How would you react?”

Neil cocked his head to the side, studying Andrew. “I don’t know that I’m pro-corkscrew-dick in general,” he said thoughtfully. “But your corkscrew dick is, I’m sure, lovely.”

“Lovely? All the words in the world and you’re going with lovely for my fictional corkscrew penis.”

“What can I say, I make bold choices.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Isn’t it?”

And suddenly it wasn’t funny at all. Suddenly it was standing on a rooftop, the edge of a chasm, with nothing but darkness below, and not knowing how far below the ground lay.

Neil was quiet, still half-draped over him, his eyes steady on Andrew’s face. Andrew swallowed, and laced his fingers through Neil’s, and let himself fall.

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those stories that knew what it wanted to be when I did Not. I hope that you enjoyed the end result as much as I had fun closing my eyes and letting it happen! As you know I have anxiety about responding to comments but I live for each and every one, and I am so so excited to see what you think of this. HMU [on Tumblr](https://fuzzballsheltiepants.tumblr.com) anytime if you want to yell or just be friends!


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